, feeling the imperious call of the city with the first keen
wind. Eloise, with a few others, waited. She expected to stay until
Barbara was strong enough to go with her.

But Barbara's strength was coming very slowly now. She grieved for her
father, and the grieving kept her back. Allan came down once a
fortnight to spend Sunday with Eloise and to look after Barbara, though
he realised that Barbara was, in a way, beyond his reach.

[Sidenote: What We Need]

"She doesn't need medicine," he said, to Eloise. "She is perfectly well,
physically, though of course her strength is limited and will be for
some time to come. What she needs is happiness."

"That is what we all need," answered Eloise.

Allan flashed a quick glance at her. "Even I," he said, in a different
tone, "but I must wait for mine."

"We all wait for things," she laughed, but the lovely colour had mounted
to the roots of her hair that waved so softly back from her low
forehead.

"When, dear?" insisted Allan, possessing himself of her hand.

"I promised once," she answered. "When the colour is all gone from the
hills and the last leaves have fallen, then I'll come."

"You're not counting the oaks?" he asked, half fearfully. "Sometimes the
oak leaves stay on all Winter, you know. And evergreens are ruled out,
aren't they?"

"Certainly. We won't count the oaks or the Christmas trees. Long before
Santa Claus comes, I'll be a sedate matron instead of a flyaway,
frivolous spinster."

"For the first time since I grew up," remarked Allan, with evident
sincerity, "I wish Christmas came earlier. Upon what day, fair lady, do
you think the leaves will be gone?"

"In November, I suppose," she answered, with an affected indifference
that did not deceive him. "The day after Thanksgiving, perhaps."

"That's Friday, and I positively refuse to be married on a Friday."

[Sidenote: The Best Day of All]

"Then the day before--that's Wednesday. You know the old rhyme says:
'Wednesday the best day of all.'"

So it was settled. Allan laughingly put down in his little red leather
pocket diary, under the date of Wednesday, November twenty-fifth, "Miss
Wynne's wedding." "Where is it to be?" he asked. "I wouldn't miss it for
worlds."

"I've been thinking about that," said Eloise, slowly, after a pause. "I
suppose we'll have to be conventional."

"Why?"

"Because everybody is."

"The very reason why we shouldn't be. This is our wedding, and we'll
have it to pl